THE INTERVIEW CAZARIL HAD BEEN DREADING DID not take place until after supper. Summoned by a page, he climbed reluctantly to the royesse’s sitting room. Iselle, looking strained, awaited him attended by Betriz; the royesse waved him to a stool. Candles burning brightly in all the mirrored wall sconces did not drive away the shadow that clung about her.
“How does Orico go on?” he asked the ladies anxiously. They had neither of them come to supper in the banqueting hall, instead remaining with the royina and the stricken roya above stairs.
Betriz answered, “He seemed calmer this evening, when he found he was not completely blind—he can see a candle flame with his right eye. But he is not passing water properly, and his physician thinks he is in danger of growing dropsical. He does look terribly swollen.” She bit her lip in worry.
Cazaril ducked his head at the royesse. “And were you able to see Teidez?”
Iselle sighed. “Yes, right after Chancellor dy Jironal dressed him down. He was too distraught to be sensible. If he were younger, I would name it one of his tantrums. I’m sorry he is grown too big to slap. He takes no food, and throws things at his servants, and now he’s freed from his chambers, is refusing to come out. There’s nothing to do when he gets like this but to leave him alone. He’ll be better tomorrow.” Her eyes narrowed at Cazaril, and her lips compressed. “And so, my lord. Just how long have you known of this black curse that hangs over Orico?”
“Sara finally talked to you…did she?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did she say?”
Iselle gave a tolerably accurate summation of the story of Fonsa and the Golden General, and the descent of the legacy of ill fortune through Ias to Orico. She did not mention herself or Teidez.
Cazaril chewed on a knuckle. “You have about half the facts, then.”
“I do not like this half portion, Cazaril. The world demands I make good choices on no information, and then blames my maidenhood for my mistakes, as if my maidenhood were responsible for my ignorance. Ignorance is not stupidity, but it might as well be. And I do not like feeling stupid.” Steel rang in these last words, unmistakably.
He bowed his head in apology. He wanted to weep for what he was about to lose. It was not to shield her maiden innocence, nor Betriz’s, that he had kept silent for too long, nor even dread of arrest. He had feared to lose the paradise of their regard, been sickened with the horror of becoming hideous in their eyes. Coward. Speak, and be done.
“I first learned of the curse the night after Dondo’s death, from the groom Umegat—who is no groom, by the way, but a divine of the Bastard, and the saint who hosted the miracle of the menagerie for Orico.”
Betriz’s eyes widened. “Oh. I…I liked him. How does he go on?”
Cazaril made a little balancing gesture with one hand. “Badly. Still unconscious. And worse, he’s”—he swallowed, Here we go—“stopped glowing.”
“Stopped glowing?” said Iselle. “I didn’t know he’d started.”
“Yes. I know. You cannot see it. There’s…something I haven’t told you about Dondo’s murder.” He took a breath. “It was me who sacrificed crow and rat, and prayed to the Bastard for Dondo’s death.”
“Ah! I’d suspected as much,” said Betriz, sitting straighter.
“Yes, but—what you don’t know is, I was granted it. I should have died that night, in Fonsa’s tower. But another’s prayers intervened. Iselle’s, I think.” He nodded to the royesse.
Her lips parted, and her hand went to her breast. “I prayed that the Daughter spare me from Dondo!”
“You prayed—and the Daughter spared me.” He added ruefully, “But not, as it turned out, from Dondo. You saw how at his funeral all the gods refused to sign that his soul was taken up?”
“Yes, and so he was excluded, damned, trapped in this world,” said Iselle. “Half the court feared he was loose in Cardegoss, and festooned themselves with charms against him.”
“In Cardegoss, yes. Loose…no. Most lost ghosts are bound to the place where they died. Dondo’s is bound to the person who killed him.” He shut his eyes, unable to bear looking at their draining faces. “You know my tumor? It’s not a tumor. Or not only a tumor. Dondo’s soul is trapped inside of me. Along with the death demon, apparently, but the demon, at least, is blessedly quiet about it all. It’s Dondo who won’t shut up. He screams at me, at night. Anyway.” He opened his eyes again, though he still did not dare look up. “All this…divine activity has given me a sort of second sight. Umegat has it—there is a little saint of the Mother in town who has it—and I have it. Umegat has—had—a white glow. The Mother Clara shines a faint green. They have both told me I am mostly blue and white, all roiling and blazing.” At last, he forced himself to look up and meet Iselle’s eyes. “And I can see Orico’s curse as a dark shadow. Iselle, listen, this is important. I don’t think Sara knows this. It’s not just a shadow on Orico. It’s on you and Teidez, too. All the descendants of Fonsa seem to be smeared by this black thing.”
After a little silence, sitting stiff and still, Iselle said only, “That makes a sort of sense.”
Betriz was eyeing him sideways. By the testimony of his belt, his tumor was not grown more gross than before, but her gaze made him feel monstrous. He bent a little over his belly and managed a weak, unfelt grin in her direction.
“But how do you get rid of this…haunting?” Betriz asked slowly.
“Um…as I understand it, if I am killed, my soul will lose its anchor in my body, and the death demon will be released to finish its job. I think. I’m a little afraid the demon will try to trick or betray me to my death, if it can; it seems a trifle single-minded. It wants to go home. Or, if the Lady’s hand opens, the demon will be released, and wrench my soul from my body, and off we all go together again the same.” He decided not to burden her with Rojeras’s other theory.
“No, Lord Caz, you don’t understand. I want to know how you can get rid of it without dying.”
“I’d like to know that, too,” Cazaril sighed. With an effort, he straightened his spine and managed a better smile. “It doesn’t matter. I traded my life for Dondo’s death of my own free will, and I’ve received my due. Payment of my debt is merely delayed, not rescinded. The Lady apparently keeps me alive for some service I have yet to perform. Or else I would slay myself in disgust and end it.”
Iselle, eyes narrowing at this, sat up and said sharply, “Well, I do not release you from my service! Do you hear me, Cazaril?”
His smile grew more genuine, for an instant. “Ah.”
“Yes,” said Betriz, “and you can’t expect us to get all squeamish just because you’re…inhabited. I mean…we’re expected to share our bodies someday. Doesn’t make us horrible, does it?” She hesitated at where this metaphor was taking her.
Cazaril, whose mind had been shying from just that parallel for some time, said mildly, “Yes, but with Dondo? You both drew the line at Dondo.” In truth, every man he’d ever killed had traveled back up the shock of his sword arm into his memory, and rode with him still, in a sense. And so we bear our sins.
Iselle put her hand to her lips in sudden alarm. “Cazaril—he can’t get out, can he?”
“I pray to the Lady he may not. The idea of him seeping into my mind is…is the worst of all. Worse even than…never mind. Oh. That reminds me, I should warn you about the ghosts.” Briefly, he repeated what the archdivine had told him about making sure his body was burned, and why. It afforded him an odd relief, to have that out. They were dismayed, but attentive; he thought he might trust them to have the courage for the task. And then was ashamed to have not trusted their courage earlier.
“But listen, Royesse,” he went on. “The Golden General’s curse has followed Fonsa’s get, but Sara is shadowed, too. Umegat and I both think she married into it.”
“Her life has certainly been made miserable enough by it,” agreed Iselle.
“It therefore follows logically, that you might marry out
of it. It is a hope, anyway, a great hope. I think we should turn our minds to the matter—I would have you out of Cardegoss, out of the curse, out of Chalion altogether, as soon as may be arranged.”
“With the court in this uproar, marriage arrangements are out of—” Iselle paused abruptly. “But…what about Teidez? And Orico? And Chalion itself? Am I to abandon them, like a general running away from a losing battle?”
“The highest commanders have wider responsibilities than a single battle. If a battle may not be won—if the general cannot save that day, at least such a retreat saves the good of another day.”
She frowned doubtfully, taking this in. Her brows lowered. “Cazaril…do you think my mother and grandmother knew of this dark thing that hangs over us?”
“Your grandmother, I don’t know. Your mother…” If Ista had seen the ghosts of the Zangre for herself, she must have been lent the second sight for a time. What did this imply? Cazaril’s imagination foundered. “Your mother knew something, but I don’t know how much. Enough to be terrified when you were called to Cardegoss, anyway.”
“I’d thought her overfussy.” Iselle’s voice lowered. “I’d thought her mad, as the servants whispered.” Her frown deepened. “I have a lot to think about.”
As her silence lengthened, Cazaril rose, and bade both ladies a polite good night. The royesse acknowledged him with an absent nod. Betriz clasped her hands together, staring at him in agonized searching, and dipped a half curtsey.
“Wait!” Iselle called suddenly as he reached the door. He wheeled around; she sprang from her chair, strode up to him, and gripped both his hands. “You are too tall. Bend your head,” she commanded.
Obligingly, he ducked his head; she stood on tiptoe. He blinked in surprise as her young lips planted a firm and formal kiss upon his brow, and then upon the back of each hand, lifted to her mouth. And then she sank to the floor in a rustle of perfumed silk, and as his mouth opened in inarticulate protest, she kissed each booted foot with the same unhesitating firmness.
“There,” said Iselle, rising. Her chin came up. “Now you may be dismissed.”
Tears were running down Betriz’s face. Too shaken for words, Cazaril bowed deeply and fled to his unquiet bed.
Cazaril found the Zangre eerily quiet the following day. After Dondo’s death the court had been alarmed, yes, but excited and given over to gossip and whispering. Now even the whispering was stilled. All who had no direct duties stayed away, and those who had inescapable tasks went about them in a hurried, apprehensive silence.
Iselle and Betriz spent the day in Ias’s tower, waiting upon Sara and Orico. At dawn, Cazaril and the grim castle warder oversaw the cremation and burial of the remains of the animals. For the rest of the day, Cazaril alternated feeble attempts to attend to the mess on his desk with trudges down to the temple hospital. Umegat lay unchanged, gray and rasping. After his second visit, Cazaril stopped in at the temple itself and prayed, prostrate and whispering, before all five altars in turn. If he was in truth infected with this saint-disease, dammit, shouldn’t it be good for something?
The gods do not grant miracles for our purposes, but for theirs, Umegat had said. Yes? It seemed to Cazaril that this bargain ought to run two ways. If people stopped lending the gods their wills by which to do miracles, eh, what would the gods do about it then? Well, the first thing to happen would be that I’d drop dead. There was that. Cazaril lay a long time before the altar of the Lady of Spring, but here found himself mute, not even his lips moving. Abashed, ashamed, despairing? But wordy or wordless, the gods returned him only the same blank silence, five times over.
He was reminded of Palli’s insistence that he not go about alone when, slogging back up the hill, he passed dy Joal and another of dy Jironal’s retainers entering Jironal Palace. Dy Joal’s hand curled on his sword hilt, but he did not draw; with polite, wary nods, they walked wide about each other.
Back in his office, Cazaril rubbed his aching brow and turned his thoughts to Iselle’s marriage. Royse Bergon of Ibra, eh. The boy would do as well as any and better than most, Cazaril supposed. But this turmoil in the court of Chalion made open negotiations impossible to carry out; it would have to be a secret envoy, and soon. Running down the list in his mind of courtiers capable of such a diplomatic mission turned up none Cazaril would trust. Running down the much shorter list of men he could trust turned up no experienced diplomats. Umegat was laid low. The archdivine could not leave in secret. Palli? March dy Palliar had the rank, at least, to demand Ibra’s respect. He tried to imagine honest Palli negotiating the subtleties of Iselle’s marriage contract with the Fox of Ibra, and groaned. Maybe…maybe if Palli were sent with an extremely detailed and explicit list of instructions…?
Needs must drive. He would broach it to Palli tomorrow.
CAZARIL PRAYED ON HIS KNEES BEFORE BED TO BE spared from the nightmare that had recurred three nights running, where Dondo grew back to life size within his swelling stomach and then, somehow dressed in his funeral robes and armed with his sword, carved his way out. Perhaps the Lady heard his plea; at any rate, he woke at dawn, his head and heart pounding, from a new nightmare. In this one, Dondo somehow sucked Cazaril’s soul into his own belly in his place, and escaped to take over Cazaril’s body. And then embarked on a career of rapine in the women’s quarters while Cazaril, helpless to stop him, watched. To his dismay, as he panted in the gray light and regained his grip on reality, Cazaril realized his body was painfully aroused.
So, was Dondo plunged into a lightless prison, sealed from sound, deprived of sensation? Or did he ride along as the ultimate spy and voyeur? Cazaril had not imagined making love to Be—to any lady since this damned affliction had been visited upon him; he imagined it now, a crowded quartet between the sheets, and shuddered.
Briefly, Cazaril envisioned escaping by the window. He might squeeze his shoulders through, and dive; the drop would be stupendous, the crunch at the end…quick. Or with his knife, taken to wrists or throat or belly or all three…He sat up, blinking, to find a half a dozen phantasms gathered avidly around him, crowding each other like vultures around a dead horse. He hissed, lurched, and swiped his arm through the air to scatter them. Could a body with its head smashed in be animated by one of them? The archdivine’s words implied so. Escape through suicide was blocked by this ghastly patrol, it seemed. Dreading sleep, he stumbled from bed and went to wash and dress.
Coming back from a perfunctory breakfast in the banqueting hall, Cazaril encountered a breathless Nan dy Vrit upon the stairs.
“My lady begs you ‘tend upon her at once,” Nan told him, and Cazaril nodded and pushed up the steps. “Not in her chambers,” Nan added, as he started past the third floor. “In Royse Teidez’s.”
“Oh.” Cazaril’s brows rose, and he turned instead to pass his own chamber and go down the hall to Teidez’s, Nan at his heels.
As he entered the office antechamber, twin to Iselle’s above, he heard voices from the rooms opening beyond; Iselle’s murmur, and Teidez’s, raised: “I don’t want anything to eat. I don’t want to see anyone! Go away!”
The sitting room was cluttered with weapons, clothes, and gifts, strewn about haphazardly. Cazaril picked his way across to the bedchamber.
Teidez lay back on his pillows, still in his nightgown. The close, moist air of the room smelled of boy sweat, and another tang. Teidez’s secretary-tutor hovered anxiously on one side of the bed; Iselle stood with her hands on her hips on the other. Teidez said, “I want to go back to sleep. Get out.” He glanced up at Cazaril, cringed, and pointed. “I especially don’t want him in here!”
Nan dy Vrit said, in a very domestic voice, “Now, none of that, young lord. You know better than to talk to old Nan that way.”
Teidez, cowed by some ancient habit, went from surly to whiney. “I have a headache.”
Iselle said firmly, “Nan, bring a light. Cazaril, I want you to look at Teidez’s leg. It looks very odd to me.”
Nan held a br
ace of candles high, supplementing the wan gray daylight from the window. Teidez at first clutched his blankets to his chest, but didn’t quite dare fight his older sister’s glare; she twitched them out of his hands and folded them aside.
Three scabbed, parallel grooves ran in a spiral partway around the boy’s right leg. In themselves, they did not appear deep or dangerous, but the flesh around them was so swollen that the skin was shiny and silvery. Translucent pink drainage and yellow pus oozed from their edges. Cazaril forced himself to keep his expression even as he studied the hot red streaks climbing past the boy’s knee and winding up the inside of his thigh. Teidez’s eyes were glazed. He jerked back his head as Cazaril reached for him. “Don’t touch me!”
“Be still!” Cazaril commanded in a low voice. Teidez’s forehead, beneath Cazaril’s wrist, was scorching.
He glanced up at the sallow-faced secretary, watching with a frown. “How long has he been feverish?”
“Just this morning, I believe.”
“When did his physician last see this?”
“He would not have a physician, Lord Cazaril. He threw a chair at me when I tried to help him, and bandaged it himself.”
“And you let him?” Cazaril’s voice made the secretary jump.
The man shrugged uneasily. “He would have it so.”
Teidez grumbled, “Some people obey me. I’ll remember who, too, later.” He glowered up at Cazaril through half-lowered lashes, and stuck out his lower lip at his sister.
“He’s taken an infection. I’ll see that a Temple physician is sent in to him at once.”